Corners of My Home, Part 1

"Stay the fuck at home."

That was one of the earliest mantras of the 2020 Apocalypse, preceding everything from "Hey, all you cool cats and kittens!" to "wear your fucking mask or get the fuck out of my face, you selfish ignorant fuckwad who really must not give a fuck about anything other than your own fucking need to be right." Home became The Place To Be. If we were unlucky, we hunkered down with asshole roommates and shitty partners; if we were lucky, we spent our solitary days cooking and crafting and purging and redecorating and renovating and sometimes, even moving. I seem to remember reading somewhere, last summer, that the pandemic and the quarantine was actually a wake-up call for a lot of people, who then went on to sell their homes. Having to spend so much time in them, folks realized all the things that they didn't like about where they lived. I realized, myself, that when I look for my next home to buy or rent, I need to ask myself, "Once I'm moved in with all my shit, and my cats, could I picture myself being quarantined here?"

I was one of the fortunate ones. It's been six years since I extracted myself from an unhappy marriage, and three years since I've lived with an asshole roommate. It's just me and my cats and my stuff; and over the course of the last year, I found ways to both purge and acquire more. (Stuff, not cats.) Oh, capitalism and consumerism. Even when we're balls-deep in a pandemic, we can still count on you, as evidenced by Jeff Bezos's ever-increasing value. 

ANYWAY.

Over the course of the last year, I've tidied and cleaned and purged and rearranged, and have done so repeatedly, all to make my home the most homey version of itself it could be. But it's funny, when you're living alone and staying the fuck at home and but not entertaining, sometimes without that outside accountability, you start to go feral, just a wee bit. 

It's spring, right? Time for some spring cleaning and whatnot. And that's what I'm getting on with, this weekend. If you're anything like me, you're nosy as fuck. I love seeing folks' homes; love seeing how they live and decorate and order their lives.  So! lucky you! I've decided to share some of the "corners" of my home, post-nesting. It's a snapshot in time, and won't stay this clean or cosy or collected for that long, but whatever. And if you don't like it, you can fuck off into the void. Happy viewing!

This is the living room. This is where the living happens. (Hey, I just made that connection! That's
why they call it the living room!) This is where I puzzle and watch TV and colour and read.)

This is where we used to get the party started. Alas, not anymore. 

My kitchen is an unholy mess (why the hell won't my cats clean up? I do the cooking, after all),
  but I managed to clean up this particular corner. (Also, side note: I love the colour teal)

One of my many, many bookshelves. 

My colouring station. Yes, I am aware, I have a problem.

Good-bye.

A Very 2020 Christmas: The One Where I Decorate the Tree and Bore You to Death

So, back about fifteen years ago, in early September, I hatched a plan that, in retrospect, was about the most unrealistic thing I could have concocted. I promised myself that if there wasn't a resurgence of the plague come Christmas, I'd drive down to Florida to spend the holidays with my sisters.

Ha. Ha. Ha. (Definitely not Ho ho ho.)

For a number of reasons that should be obvious, this isn't happening. The plague is resurging. I work with people almost every day, and I would rather not put my family at risk. And even though I've spent most of the past year in isolation, it hasn't turned me into a total asshole. The winter is slowly closing in on us here in the Midwest, and since it's no longer easy to socialize out-of-doors, people are doing exactly what anyone could have predicted: they're being dumbasses, inside. 

Anyway. I digress. My point is: Boy howdy, I will sure as shit be home for Christmas. Home as in my Indiana home, not my Florida past-home. 

It's hard. I love Christmas, weird little heathen that I am. I love the decorations and lights and coming up with lovely ideas for gifts, and I love the songs and parties and foods and glittering, glowing, sparkling joy. I even love the rather melancholy, but entirely inevitable, time of reflection that comes along with the lowering grey skies and the year ending, when memories of family and friends who have moved on or passed on out of my life crowd into my head once more. 

When I made the decision not to go to Florida for Christmas, I sulked and stewed inwardly for a second, and resented anything and everything about 2020. And then I thought, "2020 doesn't have to ruin Christmas. I can still enjoy this fucking holiday. If I choose not to, that's on me." So, I decided to lean into this extraordinarily fucked-up holiday season as much as I could. 

One of my favorite traditions is decorating my tree. One day, I'll have two Christmas trees--one of those shiny sparkly bougie themed trees for show in the living room window, and a hodge-podge tree with all of my lovely ornaments and bits and bobs I've acquired over the years. But for now, all I have is a scraggly old tree with a hideous assortment of ornaments. I usually have a friend or two over to keep me company as I put up the various ornaments, who patiently listen as I share the backstory of some of them. This year, of course, I can't do that. 

Except I can. With all y'all!

This is the latest addition--my brother-in-law sent this along
 to me, and if isn't perfect, I don't know what is!

When my sisters and I were wee mites, we would play with the ornaments

on our tree, much as though they were dolls and accessories. Our cousin

worked for Avon, and provided us with a magical treasure trove of Avon-

issued ornaments to aid us in our earnest flights of fancy. One of our favorites 

from this trove was the set of "Nutcracker" characters; we'd spend countless 

hours, over many Decembers,  with these crude wooden ornaments clutched 

in our fumbling, childish hands. Of course, they disappeared during the various

 traumas and upheavals of our adolescence, but about 12 years ago, Eldest Sister 

scored a vintage set on Etsy and brought this magic back into my life. 

Each year, my friends Michael and Anna give me an ornament with

 a picture of their son, my "nephew". These pictures always remind 

me of how we choose our family, and how lucky I am that 

these lovely people chose me for their family, too. 

One of my ex-boyfriends...we'll call him Mr. Robinson...gave this to 

me, back in 1998. It was originally part of a set (with Mickey, of

 course), but Mickey has long since departed. Or perhaps I showed 

Mickey the door, much was I eventually did with Mr Robinson? 

Also, I don't give two hoots about Disney shit, but the boyfriend 

sure did. I'm still not sure why he got me this, but I know why I keep 

it. Mr Robinson passed away five years ago now, and as problematic

 as our relationship was, it feels wrong to forget it, or him. 

Back in 2002, I was living with another boyfriend (John the Saint). It 

was my first apartment; it was the first man I shacked up with; it was the 

first time I had my very own Christmas tree. It was a beautiful (thematic!)

 tree, decorated in silver and white and ice-blue and lavender. This spray

 of stars is the only remaining ornament from that gorgeous tree...and 

close to the only thing that remains of my time with John the Saint. 

Speaking of boyfriends (again), this is an ornament that I purchased 

back during Indiana 1.0, in 2004, when I was shacked up with my boyfriend

 at the time (Mr. Indiana, AKA the previously mentioned Michael.) In the

 great scheme of my life, it was a fairly short-lived relationship, and it

 ended with me throwing out or giving away most of my belongings, packing 

whatever was left in my car, and driving to California to launch my career

 as a librarian. What on earth made me decide, Yes, I will save this ornament, 

but not my pots and pans, and move it with me all the way to California? 

No fucking clue, but I'm glad I did!

Speaking of California...this little dangly, wobbly...crawdad? bay bug? came 

into my life around 2007, given to me by one of the first friends I made when

 I came to California. Kristin and I both had (and hopefully still have) a ridiculously
 absurd and quirky sense of humor, and every year, when I unpack this little guy, 

I laugh as much as I did when I first got him. Damn, I miss Kristin. 

My time in California (along with my marriage) finally and thankfully

 came to an end, and I returned home to the Midwest. I was so freakin' glad 
to shake the California dust from my shoes,  but I still stayed in touch with 
some of the folks I had befriended there. My first Christmas back in Indiana, one 
of those California friends orchestrated a Secret Santa exchange with all of 
her Facebook friends, and I decided to participate...only to be gifted, by some
 well-intentioned stranger, these ornaments. At the time I unwrapped them,
  I maybe shuddered a little bit, but enough time has passed now that when I
 put these ornaments on the tree, I smile and remember that past life and don't
  curse all those who peopled it to the bowels of hell. (Also, they live in 
Palm Springs, so I'm pretty sure they're already in hell.)

Whenever I travel to someplace new (oh, travel! remember that?) 

I like to pick up a Christmas ornament to remind me of my travels.

 In 2019, I journeyed to Australia, and picked up this little guy. 

It's a cassowary. Otherwise known as a Murder Bird. 

The end result of all these ornaments, gathered over various lives within my life. And 

yes, that is a mask you see, dangling towards the bottom of the tree. Fuck you, 2020.

Mid-March Meanderings

There it is.

Every year, sometime in March or April, I have a moment when I feel it--the return of spring. I felt it the day before yesterday, walking back to the library during lunch. It was almost sunny, almost not chilly, and a slight breeze was blowing through the not-yet-budding trees.

We just sprung forward, this last Sunday, so the sun (when we see it) lingers into the evening later. Daffodil shoots are thrusting from the cold, brown ground. Birds are starting to pep up and sing more. And of course, with the slightly-warmer weather, come the tornie warnies; we spent a fair bit of yesterday afternoon at the library taking shelter as a strong storm and possible tornado moved through the county. So, winter has almost relinquished its hold. And as much as I dread the upcoming summer--hey, at least it's not summer in California. I actually had a dream the other night that I lived in California; that the summer was coming; that months and months of brutal sunshine and unrelenting heat were approaching. I was so sad. Suffocated. Trapped.

That time in my life, thank god, is done. I'm coming up on my third year Back Home Again; the exciting novelty of the first year has of course worn away--much like it happens in a relationship after the honeymoon period. But what remains is ideally what happens when the honeymoon is over; the love I have for my home has deepened, hopefully matured. I think I know my home's beauties and flaws, but just like in a relationship, I hope that I will continue discovering more. And like what should happen in a relationship, I shouldn't take my home for granted. Shouldn't ignore it.

(Funny that I seem to know how a good, long-term relationship should work, yet I've managed to sustain...well, none of them. 😂😂😂)

Whatever. The spring is almost upon us, and now it's time to shake off the winter doldrums, put away the heavy sweaters, and plan a few adventures and road trips and maybe just some jaunts around time. Here are a few of the places I'd like to venture forth to in the next couple of months:

Jordan Greenhouse, on campus (although, to be fair, it probably would have been a great place to visit during the worst of the winter months).

Southeast Park: For three years, I've been driving past this little park. From the road, it's a pretty space, with a little stream burbling through. Why haven't I made the time to go there? This spring, I'm going to make sure this happens.

Le Petit Cafe: In my defense, this place is not the easiest place to visit. The hours are funky. But there's a lunch buffet sometimes (a buffet of French food? Um, yes.) And the restaurant scene in Bloomington is a bit of a tricky scene--places come and go--so I need to move fast on this.)

Spring and summer are great times to venture forth and see new places and do new things. Anything you're planning on for the coming warm months?

And Now, December

Now, December. It's a morning with a lowering grey sky, a morning with just enough chill to allow my breath to linger in a little puff. As a child in Florida, walking with my sisters to our school bus stop, I would huff away continuously, delighted by that rare (for Florida) reminder of cold weather. I'd be lying if I said I didn't prounce and puff about in these chilly mornings, even now, as I push into middle age. I've still not acclimated to the delight and gratitude that surge through me whenever I realize that I'm here, home, and able to experience the progression of life, happening in cycle with the season.

Fourteen years ago, around this time I hopped on the bus and rode it into campus for my last classes of my first semester of grad school. Then, I was 24--so young, although silly me, I didn't feel like it at the time. So certain about so much. That certainty is one of the things that dies with youth, I think--thank goodness. I knew I was loved and that I had a life partner who would stick by my side through thick and thin; I knew I was surrounded by fun, young, smart people, each of us enduring a similar grad school experience. I knew that there was so much still ahead of me, if only I could survive grad school.

And then this morning, I hopped on the bus and rode it into campus for my last class of the semester. Perhaps because it's cold and early, perhaps because we have become a population absorbed with our phones, the crowd on the bus was silent, each rider wrapped up in their own thoughts and world. Normally I'd be happy to immerse myself into social media, but this morning, I gazed out the window at the bare trees, the students and faculty hustling about, the grey limestone of the university buildings, the endless rhythms of academia expanding and contracting. I'm no longer 24 or even particularly young; the partner and friends I had have all moved on, although we are all, more or less, in touch. Graduations, jobs and careers, cross-country moves, marriages, divorces, even death have been our lot. Climate change, hope and change, recession and recovery, making America great again which made it worse again. It's like a Billy Joel song, without the music.

I'm older but not wiser, sadder, yet strangely, happier. Certainly more content. Hopefully able to keep things in perspective, to know when to fight, when to give something up as a bad show, when to stop when I'm ahead. Hopefully able to appreciate this fleeting life and its countless privileges, and hopefully able to embrace opportunities and adventures.

Today is the last class of the semester. Somehow, I survived (I mean, really, there was no somehow about it; it's not like I was actually going to not make it through)--at the expense of my social life, perhaps, but I'm enough of a natural hermit to put that shit on hold for a while. But three jobs simply require too much of my mental resources; it's difficult to devote all of my mental energy to one particular job at a time, to say nothing of the other facets of my life. It's not fair to anyone, so at the end of this semester, I'm indefinitely giving up teaching. I'm no longer in the first flush of youth, but I ain't old, either, and it doesn't make sense to me to keep plugging away, working so much, when there are places to go, people to meet, things to create, lessons to learn, winters to wallow in.

Now, December, for a moment.  But not forever.

Hoosier Broad in a Hoosier Nation

When I was growing up, on the weekends my mother would send me over to my grandparents' house. I lived for these weekends--my grandmother doted on me, and my grandfather went along with my grandmother in most things. Every Friday night, when I came over, we would go for a stroll around our neighborhood, walking along the cracked sidewalks and sweating in the Florida humidity and talking of lord only knows what.

But I do know what. "Tell me about the olden days," I'd cajole them. And they would.

I remember my Boppa telling me a little about his high school years in 1930s Tipton, Indiana--now, this was a man who was Hoosier to his core. He was quiet, whip-smart, hardworking, and humble about it. So when he would talk about his years playing basketball in high school, there was never any bragging in his tone. It wasn't until after he passed away that I learned from his sister, my Great Aunt Wilma, that he was something of an MVP on his team. After high school, there wasn't much of a question of him having any sort of future in basketball--even if it weren't for the Great Depression, and then the war, my grandfather's people were tenant farmers, working hard to just keep body and soul together.  But he was damned good at his basketball, and even into his last years, he loved watching the game.

It wasn't just my grandfather, either. Basketball is kind of a major thing here in the Heartland--basketball and corn. We play one and eat the other. Now, I am not a sports girl at all--usually, I would bracket basketball in with all the other sportsball stuff. But I am a Hoosier girl, and I've been meaning to get to a game for while.

(A while being for, oh, say, the last two years.)

My cubicle mate at work diligently, dare I day religiously, attends a lot of the women's basketball games. First, because yay! women! and second, because they are a lot cheaper than the men's basketball games. So I hear some updates from her, from time to time, on how "the team" is doing. And recently, I heard "the team" was doing pretty well. Like, championship well.

Combine that with a friend from the big city in town for the weekend, a couple of rainy days, a slight panic attack of "Oh my god what can we do?", and some free tickets, and I (along with my city-slicker friend) got to enjoy THE HOOSIER NATION experience.

(It's not a complete Hoosier Nation experience without a little pre-gaming at Nick's.) 

Usually, the women's basketball games don't generate a huge attendance. But because we hit the day that they were doing the WNIT Finals, and WE were in the finals, and it was at OUR stadium...we broke a record. 13,007 people showed up for this game. 

(Not sure if the Candy-Striper Dude counted) 

(Nonetheless, there were a lot of us)

I know next to nothing about basketball. But I know it's fast-paced, I know basketball is a thing here, I know my grandfather loved it...and I figured this would be a fantastic Bloomington/Hoosier Experience for the both me and my friend. And it was!
 

It was the largest crowd to attend a IU Women's Basketball game. It was rather exciting to be part of IU History, even if it was a rather modest sort of legacy when compared with all the other records and victories.

More importantly, with that many people, the crowd was lit! And, I quickly realized--a crowd really helps make the game. Bet the cheerleaders and band really appreciated having an engaged (and huge) audience for this event.

I can, and am, as cynical about sportsball as the next person--the enormous amounts of money poured into athletics, the abuses of power, the scandals, as well as my vague suspicion that sportsball is as much of an opiate for the masses as religion or movies--all give me the feeling that this (along with probably every other facet of western consumer culture in which I am, to greater or lesser degrees, a willing participant) is...well, problematic, for lack of a better word. But I'm not one to denounce an activity or entertainment just because I have some issues with it, and nor am I a person to deny myself the enjoyment of that activity. Particularly since, as the game commenced, I was pleasantly bombarded with memories of a very patient grandfather attempting to explain the rules of basketball to his youngest granddaughter. I don't know that I believe in ghosts, but I do believe in being haunted (or accompanied by) powerful memories of the folks we love, and it felt like my Boppa's company was close by during that game.

Also, we ("we", ha) won the game. Icing on the Hoosier Cake.

Will I get season tickets to the Women's games next year? Or even (gasp!) shell out for a ticket to some of the men's games? I don't want to say for certain...but I am very much tempted, if it means carrying on a bit of my grandfather's memory, as well as becoming more embedded in my adopted home.

My Second Indianaversary

Two years.

2 years.

Two. 2. Two. 2.

Two years ago, I moved home.

How has it been two years? The more I repeat those words, the less sense they make, and the less profundity they have. They are just words that don't at all encompass the fact that somehow, so much time has passed since I made that journey away across deserts and prairies and through fields and forests, from California to Indiana.

So much of my life is completely different.

The magic and wonder that came with, "Oh my god, I really did make it back home" have worn off, of course. Just like with a new relationship, there's no way that bliss could sustain itself. Not when things like perpetual 'flu, an incredibly fucked-up election, an unstable living situation with an unpleasant person, and just all the quotidian things that come with living life, are all crowding in. So yes, in that sense, the euphoria has worn off. But my happiness, my contentment, my sense of rightness, those have not faded in these two years, only grown ever more lush, like a never-ending Indiana June.

Lots of people say, "You can't outrun your problems. Run away, move to a new place, you'll still be you.You won't be any happier. New city, same you."

Well...yes, and no.

I did move to a new place, start a new life. And I was still me. I still had some of my problems; I was still the same person that created and/or attracted and/or permitted those problems. But I was still--and am still--happier. Because, as it turns out, there were some problems that I could leave behind. My biggest problems were where I was living (it felt completely alien and wrong for me); my marriage (it was an absolute failure); and my job (I had outgrown it.) So, I moved to a place that I loved, that felt right; I ended my marriage; and I took a new job, at a different organization, doing something very different. I was the same person, but I liked my life so much more. Even during this last year, which was simply a nightmare year, I still liked my life.

2 years in, and I am still me. Still liking my life, and still aware of my flaws, my choices, my habits, my thought processes, my insecurities, all of which are still a part of me, and still have the potential to bring me unhappiness. All I can do, every day, is try embrace this new chance at life that I've been given, to try to fall more in love with my lovely, backward state, to simultaneously improve my faults and yet accept that "All we can be is who we are...failures and all."

I'm still me. I'm home. And I'm happy.

2018, So Far...

2018! Hello, how are you? Nice to meet you. Are you anything like 2017? What's that? You say you bear no resemblance to that foul number?!? Well, that's just swell. I reckon we will get along just fine.

(I can dream, can't I?) 

Last weekend, I remarked to a friend that 2017 was just a plain damned bad year for us. There was death--both from old age and suicide. There was illness. People got hit by cars. There were more disappointments than can be counted, both professional and personal. There were stressful life situations, and shitty people. In fact, 2017 sucked so bad that it wasn't content to suck only in 2017--it started sucking in 2016, with the election!

People talk about how they have a theme, or a word, to define their year. Well, for me, the word for me in 2017 was endure.

For months, I was ready for the end of 2017. I know, I know. We can start over again every morning, and we don't have to wait for a new year. But there is something beautiful and pristine about January 1st. It's like a mini life-reset button. And so, when the end of 2017 rolled around, my friends and I paused in our game of Cards Against Humanity, raised our glasses of shitty champagne, said "Suck a nut!" to 2017, and metaphorically ran straight into the welcoming arms of the new year. 

There's a lot that I'm looking forward to in this new year. Perhaps the most pleasing thing is that, in less than a month, I'll be moving into my own place. This is the culmination of the various upheavals and uncertainties I've been encountering in my life over the last four years--the divorce, the various moves, the living situations that I should have gotten out of my system when I was a college-aged nitwit, not a woman nearing middle age. My existence has felt so unsettled, so unpredictable, for so long, and I'm beyond ready to just dig in some roots, settle in, and live. Not extravagantly, or dangerously, or promiscuously. Just live my life, quietly and usefully, with my work and my hobbies and my modest pursuits, entertaining my friends, exploring my state, trying to mentally and emotionally recover from...so much. There has been so much that I haven't been able to know or count on, for so long. And perhaps that won't change. But I'd just like to take a year or two to be in my own home, experiencing my own life on my own terms, before having to strategize about what comes next. I've been worried about What Comes Next for so long, that I haven't been able to focus on What's Happening Now as much as I would like.

So here's what's happening now: I am in my warm bed, with a cat sitting next to me, his purr loud and happy. There's a winter storm brewing outside, and as usual, a thousand thoughts brewing in my head. My bunion is aching and I'm getting sleepy and I'm feeling safer and happier than I've felt in a long time, and I am happy with this moment of my life--which is, really, the only moment I have. I'm making plans and preparations for many future happy moments, but for now, I'll take this moment of happy...and be excited for more moments of happy to come.   

Another Homecoming

Well and so! Another August--my second one back here in Bloomington--draws to a close. Other than a few brutally hot days, it's been unusually mild and dry, and while I'm no expert when it comes to leaf science (is that a thing?), I wonder if this weather has anything to do with the red and orange pops of color that are already here in the trees.

With the end of August comes the inevitable return of the students. And here is a rather unexpected development--the students are not the only ones returning to Indiana University. I am, too.

Two weeks ago, I stood before a class of library science students. Eleven and twelve and thirteen years ago, I had been one of those students, sitting in that same classroom, prepared to absorb the information my instructors were about to impart. Now, I am one of those instructors, teaching Collection Development. Strange to think that I'm now a little bit of an expert, at least in terms of having over a decade of professional, practical public library experience, which is apparently a marketable commodity.

So. It seems I've come home, in every sense of the word.

The basement halls and lockers around which  I and my friends and fellow students hung around now echo--other students cluster around them, of course, but all of my people--even the most of the professors I knew--have shuffled on to other things--other jobs, retirement, even death. Now, down these halls I walk, an almost middle-aged woman, missing those who populated my youth.  I try to hold myself rather accountable--"I'm not chasing some lost youth or fanciful second chance, am I?"  But still, I'm simply grateful to be here once more. It's another way to be useful and occupied and to try and lead a life of significance, if not success.

And I now have a solid reason to spend time on this beautiful campus, observing the lively, hopeful students, being challenged intellectually and professionally, roaming the stacks of the Wells Library.

Here, at least, things have not changed. These books, also my friends, have not left. They greet me, as they greet all, with a studied, passive indifference, but they accept me. They are steady, and change only as much as the people who read them (or revise them) change and project their own thoughts and interpretations onto the texts.

Most comforting of all: the campus, while now boasting of old buildings with sometimes-new names, and a few new buildings and cosmetic features, hasn't changed much either. It's still lush and green and a little bit abandoned in high summer, a little bit burnt-brown and a lot crowded in the late summer, but the land endures. The thoughts and personalities and hopes and sadnesses and worries and insouciant joys of thousands of students seep their way into the trees, the paths, the soil, becoming part of the story of our university, becoming the stories that nobody hears, but that endure nonetheless. A dozen years ago, I was one of those students, and my story became part of the university. Now I'm back to write another chapter.  

In the Heart of the Winter, This Night is Not The End

"In the heart of the winter, you can see through the trees, 

and the frozen ground waiting, is the feel of your dreams. 

Life used to be simple, the world used to be sane

There's something that's missing, I want it put back again."

A year ago...

...Was the second year anniversary of my mother's death...

...I filed for divorce...

...I attended my work holiday dinner with a hollow smile nailed to my face and watched my energetic colleagues receive (well-deserved) awards and dance with their love interests...

...I drove home, and got on Facebook, to see that my soon-to-be-ex had thrown himself a birthday party, and was surrounded by many of our mutual friends...

...And I sat in my bed and cried. And then had a lengthy phone conversation with a totally inappropriate person, and drank a lot of vodka, and eventually fell asleep, not knowing if or when anything would change.

And now, today. A year later. Everything is different, in all the best ways imaginable. I'm removed from that life, that environment, and most of those people. I'm safe, and busy, and I have the only thing that I knew I wanted. I'm home, and I'm trying to re-build a life that I never should have left.

Fittingly, tonight--on a cold, sleety night, just before the start of winter-- I attended a concert performance at the UU Church here in town called "Made in Indiana", featuring one of my favorite musicians, Tim Grimm. He, and another musician, and two authors, all shared their reflections and stories of life in Indiana, and Tim sang a song about the winter solstice, that dark time of the year...basically, where I was this time last year. Then I was struggling, reaching out for any sort of hope, reassurance, validation, no matter the source. Now I am in a quiet place in my life, laying fallow, perhaps. My soul is regenerating, I suppose you could say. I imagine that in a while, I shall be ready for more hope, more experiences, more possibilities, more risk. 

For now, it's enough that I am here, and that everything is different. 

"No, we are not alone, this night is not the end...

Brothers and sisters, all around, 

a new day is ready to begin..."

I lost a month of my life.

I mean, I knew exactly where it got to, but still, it's lost. Gone.

On October 30, after a long night of some pretty hard partying, I woke up tired and achey with a sore throat. Thus began the WORST headcold of my life--which lingered throughout all of November and into December, and in fact turned into a sinus infection and bronchitis, and possibly walking pneumonia. (I'm waiting to see on that last one.) This wretched epizoodie from hell was still going strong on November 8, when my friends and I gathered together and threw back drinks called "Nasty Woman" and "Putin's Puppet" and "The Bad Hombre" and prepared for the election results. We were trying not to jinx anything, but I would be lying if I said we weren't looking at each other with hope, and excitement, and glee. 

As the night went on, the mood went downhill. A lot of our friends are LGBTQA+, and they started making weak, grim jokes about the internment camps. Anna sat on Michael's lap and began to cry. My friend John saw the expression on my face and silently switched over to making me gin and tonics. 

I cried myself to sleep that night. 

The next morning, I woke up with a crying hangover, probably an actual hangover, and my sickness still wreaking havoc on my body. Like so many of the folks in my country, I was decimated, devastated, disgusted, and frightened. I still was, 10 days later, when I flew down to Florida for an extended Thanksgiving holiday. 

And so, I lost a month. An autumn month, at that. And then when I emerged (still coughing) into the cold, grey morning of December 1, I noticed three things: 

1. It got cold, at some point. Goodbye, fall, I barely knew ye.

2. I somehow managed to inexplicably sprain my toe.

3. The upstairs toilet flooded. 

The following days haven't been nearly as bad, but I am still kind of bewildered about how I lost a whole month. Only in the last ten days have I really felt like I've opened my eyes again to my surroundings and hopes and plans. The days are long, but the years are short, and when you've lost a month of your year, it gets even shorter.

How I Fared at the Fair (and the Fair Fare Upon Which I Fared)

"When they pulled into the Fair Grounds, they could hear music and see the Ferris wheel turning in the sky. They could smell the dust of the race track where the sprinkling cart had moistened it, and they could smell hamburgers frying and see balloons aloft..."  
-E.B. White, from Charlotte's Web

Recently I duped cajoled persuaded one of my new friends--a particularly amiable chap named Jeremy, who is always up for hijinks and shenanigans involving this humble state of ours--into not only accompanying me to the State Fair, but also into going along with the 12 hour schedule of events I planned out for us.

This is not a typo: 12 hours. 

If you think there's not 12 hours of things to do at a State Fair, then you clearly haven't had the privilege to come to a Midwestern State Fair. And also you're probably a bit of an idiot. I don't know what other state fairs are like--hell, I don't know if the Indiana State Fair is always like this, but it being the Bicentennial and all, good golly, there was so much to do and see (and, uh, eat) that 12 hours simply wasn't nearly enough.

We went on a Saturday, after a week of gorgeously sunny, warm weather. As we drove up to Indy, the clouds were gathering in, heavy and close and grey, and--no joke--as soon as we turned on 38th Street and joined the line of cars waiting to enter the Fairgrounds, the skies opened up and the rains came down. It was an annoyance, but not a game-changer--on and off throughout the day, the rain continued. It was never a gully-washer--but it was enough to keep the crowds down a bit, and give us an excuse to spend some time at the Beer, Wine, and Spirits Exhibition Hall (more on that later.)

In the past, when I thought about county and state fairs, I thought about only a few things: food, and the Midway rides, and the carnies and hawkers. But in researching and planning this year's adventure, I got a chance to really think about the backbone of the fair: the farmers, and the creators. Early on, we spent a fair amount of time in the Purdue Science Agriculture/Horticulture Extension Building (and not just because it was air-conditioned!), and I'm glad we did, because it helped put so much into perspective. It was here that Jeremy spun a gourd (this is not an innuendo), and where we ogled the longest gourd (not the same one that Jeremy spun) and where I got to see ALL THE CORN and where we pondered the ethics of keeping a punkin that was on life support...

And where we saw beautiful displays of prize-winning vegetables, and a scarecrow that was legit scary and also won a prize (what the eff is wrong with Hoosiers?!?)

The thing that I found the best about this part of the fair was seeing the pride that people were taking in their produce and livestock, and the ways that they try to do outreach and inform people of the incredibly important work that they do. In a sense, County and State Fairs are like professional conferences for farmers, but open to the public. It's kind of silly--I think there's such a conception of farmers in America being backwards, or hicks, or bumpkins, but they do work that is critical to the survival of our human race. Like, the work that you and I do? It's important to some, but not in the same way that farmers are essential. It's fantastic to see them gathered at the State Fair and celebrating what they do, and the difference they make.

Now, let's talk about the Bicentennial Experience.

As I've mentioned, oh, 2 or 3 or 200 times, it's Indiana's Bicentennial this year, and they sure as hell did a fantastic job of celebrating it at the Fair. They had an entire exhibition hall dedicated to Indiana history, commerce, and culture. I was in hog heaven...

My favorite part was the LEGO display of creations that depicted Indiana life and culture. 

(College rivalries and covered bridges; it's what we are known for)

(And corn, too. We are totally known for corn. I about died when I saw this LEGO 

creation of a Hoosier family farm, complete with corn and soy fields and a basketball 

goal. It was hard to tear myself away from this display.)

Because of the weather (it alternated between "Oh look! More rain!" to literally ten minutes later: "UGH the sun is out and it's so humid!") we ducked in and out of many climate-controlled buildings, most of them filled with either displays related to farms and farming, or Indiana And Why We Are Awesome, or...

Replicas of Indiana farmhouses!

I honestly have no clue. Something needle-pointy? I love it. 

Quilts! Because Indiana. 

Collections of Antiques

Scrapbooking layouts. There is actually an award
 category for this, I think. Again, because Indiana. 

Bug collections. I'm not even kidding.
 There were SO MANY BUGS.

Bunnies who moon you.

It's as if, as my fellow adventurer pointed out, everyone in the state who is motivated enough comes together in Indy for the State Fair to say, "Hi! So this is what I've been up to this past year."

Now. Let's talk about what REALLY matters at a fair...

...the food. ALL THE FOOD.

This is merely one of about 1,816 food venues at the fair. 

About 1814.5 of them feature some sort of variation on deep fried victuals.

This is what the vendor called the "I'm Single Special"--a sampler of deep fried death. AKA Deep Fried Oreo, Birthday Cake, Reeses Peanut Butter Cup, and Cookie Dough.

Deep fried cheese...

 A bacon cheese burger between two donuts. (To be fair, it could have been worse; 

you could have gotten mac'n'cheese on it. Also, I didn't get this; my friend did. So, a win?) 

Funnel cake. SO MUCH funnel cake.  Regular funnel cake, Cookies and Cream Funnel Cake, Red Velvet Funnel Cake...BIRTHDAY CAKE FUNNEL CAKE! (Now, let's be clear: I didn't eat all those different funnel cakes. I'm just saying, there was a variety.) I ended up having a birthday cake funnel cake in celebration of Indiana's 200th birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY INDIANA! I ate that 

funnel cake all for you. It was too sweet.

And my favorite (and possibly the healthiest) things I ate: pig on a stick (AKA a wonderfully marinated pork chop on a skewer) and sweet corn on the cob. Both were indescribably delicious--and perfectly Indiana, too. I'll be dreaming of these yummies until next year's fair. 

After a cloudy yet golden dusk gave way to a humid, drizzly night, after a full 12 hours spent surrounded by folks from all over the state, after we spent all of our money and consumed two weeks' worth of calories, after we celebrated Hoosier history and culture, we trudged back to our car, parked in the vast center of the Fairgrounds. To the west, the Midway lights still twinkled; to the south, the Farmers Coliseum--built during the Depression as a WPA project--stood sentinel over the whole Fairgrounds. We were tired, over-full, but justifiably proud: we had done and seen and eaten just about everything we had planned for. We did right by the Fair, during this special Bicentennial Year. Because of those Bicentennial celebrations and exhibits, it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And while I know I will return to the Fair many times in the years and decades ahead, none of them will ever be like this Fair experience, during my first year Back Home.